


Golden Lips Pressed Against Skin

by anarchycox



Series: Witcher Bingo Card Prompts [10]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt POV, Hand Jobs, M/M, geralt paints his face, idiots to lovers, jaskier is shook, monster hunt, oh so that's what that feeling was, wearing make up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25263100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchycox/pseuds/anarchycox
Summary: Geralt has to hunt a very very old monster, which means the old methods of hunting. Instead of potions, he has to paint sigils upon his skin. He doesn't understand Jaskier's reaction to this, until Jaskier's reaction becomes very visceral and hands on.And clues into something that has been brewing for a very long time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Bingo Card Prompts [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1746034
Comments: 110
Kudos: 576
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	Golden Lips Pressed Against Skin

**Author's Note:**

> for wearing make up on my bingo card

“A what now?”

“A Vingloradh,” Geralt said.

“Melitele, bless you.”

Geralt rolled his eyes a bit at that. “A Vingloradh,” Geralt repeated. “You are staying in the inn, playing at the tavern, anywhere away from the hunt.”

“Twelve years, Geralt, you say that every time, and I have listened precisely how much?” Jaskier was tuning his lute on the bed and Geralt could feel the regular argument getting ready to build up and he had to put a stop to it, because this was a monster that would love Jaskier.

“You are going to listen this time,” Geralt answered firmly. He ignored the snort that Jaskier gave and set to prepping for the hunt tonight. It had taken him longer than he expected to figure out what monster it was, just because Vingloradh generally didn’t bother small villages, there wasn’t enough to feed them in the muck and desperation. “I mean it, Jaskier.”

“You always do,” Jaskier dismissed. Geralt went into his potions bag and dug for a small case at the bottom, he hadn’t had to use it in almost forty years, that long since he had come across a Vingloradh. But just like his seldom used potions, he always made sure what was in the case was still usable before he set out every spring. “Wait, what’s that?”

“What I need to fight a Vingloradh,” Geralt said. “You know I always prepare for a hunt.”

“But it is always the same. Clean your swords, maybe soak in a decoction. Line up the potions, yell at me to stay put, head out, and then I follow.” Jaskier came over and was clearly curious about the case. “What is it?”

“A Vingloradh is sort of like a succubus,” Geralt explained. He opened the case and pulled out the linen. He lay it on the table. He looked around the room. “Jaskier, no mirror in here. You have one in your pack?” He assumed the man had to have one, based on how his hair often looked. Sure enough Jaskier brought a small mirror over. “I need you to hold it so I can see what I am doing.” Geralt adjusted Jaskier’s grasp so that it was at the right spot. He unfolded the linen and looked at the items. Marked on the tin was the symbols he needed to draw. He just had to remember where they went. 

But he could do his eyes while he tried to remember. He lifted the kohl to his eyelids.

“A succubus?”

“Sort of but not,” Geralt said as he rimmed one eye in the black make up. He needed a bit more light and used igni on a candle near by. Upper lid was done, and he carefully worked on the bottom. “Succubus feed on sexual feelings. A threat to you enough as it is.”

“I am not that bad,” Jaskier protested. The mirror moved and Geralt adjusted Jaskier’s hands again. “I’m not! Name one succubus that I have fallen prey to?”

“I have saved you from seven,” Geralt said, “you always smell like arousal. I’ve often thought you should consult a healer about that.”

“Huh, can’t imagine why I always smell like arousal around you,” Jaskier muttered, “So strange.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, as he began to rim his other eye in the black, “you are just highly sexed, I assumed.” He put the liner down and checked it seemed pretty even. He gazed up at Jaskier, since the man was standing while Geralt sat. “Are my eyes even?” Jaskier’s mouth was opened. “Guess not?” Geralt shrugged. “Haven’t done this in a long time. Vingloradh are rare. Had to practice but got out of the habit.” He checked and they looked pretty damn even, though the left eyelid was a little thicker. So he made the other match. “Fuck, I look like a damn raccoon.”

“Raccoon?” Jaskier choked out.

Geralt frowned at him. “You know, the creature that eats trash in the dark, has ringed eyes?” Geralt gestured. “I look like a raccoon.”

“Not exactly,” Jaskier still sounded odd.

“You should drink some tea, before you sing tonight, with your throat sounding like that,” Geralt was a bit concerned. He shrugged though because he had to get these paints on. He looked at the symbols again and finally remembered where they were supposed to go. He opened the small pot and took out a brush. He wet the tip and slowly dragged it through the black that was reactivated by the water. He drew the sigil that twisted from the corner of left eye to ear and then the lines across his nose. Good, steady straight. He cleaned the brush and switched to the paint pot that was dark blue barely different from the black and started the sigil that went on the right cheek. “Just as a succubus feeds on sexual desire and need a Vingloradh feeds on vanity, confidence, pride. You would be such a tasty morsel for the creature. And it is old, because they are cunning. They can control their need to feed. They are strong, men are always vain.” He finished with the blue, and then added in the green sigils that rested along his jaw. “So old, that only the old ways can defeat them. Before we had potions, our alchemy, we had the protection of the gods and wore their mark into battle. Some burned into skin, some painted on. A Vingloradh don't just draw from you, but from within you. They seep into your very being, the black stops that.”

“And the blue, and green?”

“Strength and healing. Not as strong as the potions, but one whiff of any of our potions and a Vingloradh will be gone, might be fifty years before we get the scent of them.” Geralt opened the last pot and dipped the brush into the paint that had real gold in it. He carefully painted in his bottom lip. “And gold for vanity to draw the creature in.” Geralt had to catch the mirror as Jaskier dropped it. Poor guy his fingers and been holding it so tightly they must have gone numb. Geralt checked it all against the symbols tapped into the tin. He had it all as right as he would get it. He put away all the paints. When he looked over Jaskier was still standing there, his fingers curved as if they still held the fever. Something was really wrong with the bard. Geralt stood, and breathed in. That arousal smell was stronger, Jaskier must be eager to be below stairs flirting with a bar maid or such. There was no scent of fever or illness. His pupils were blown wide, his breath a bit ragged. “Fuck, Jaskier if you are that aching for a girl you saw, go to it.” It meant at least the man wouldn’t follow him.

“Paint,” Jaskier whispered. “You are all painted up.”

“Yes, I am,” Geralt agreed slowly. “I know it looks stupid, but it is the only way to combat this monster.”

“Stupid?” Jaskier’s voice was faint. He hands were still acting as if they held the mirror. Geralt gently pushed them down. “Huh? Lip. Eyes.”

“Yes, they are painted and they are stupid. Now you have zero protection against this monster, so I am begging you Jaskier, go down and fuck whoever it is that has you smelling like that and I’ll be back in a few hours.” Geralt glared at him, even pointed a finger. “Stay. Fuck.”

“Stay, fuck. Lips.”

“Sure,” Geralt agreed and strapped on his weapons and left the room. There were no footsteps behind him, but over the years Jaskier had grown wily, and would often sneak out a window or the back door. Geralt waited a few minutes but Jaskier didn’t follow. Fuck, maybe the man really was sick. He didn’t have time to concern himself with that. Geralt strode through town and ignored the smirks that some of the other men gave the paint on his face. It was going to save their lives, and they mocked. Humans were always the same. He picked up the trail he had scented earlier and followed it. He twisted and walked through the woods and found a spot where people had hung some mirrors.

That could explain what had drawn the Vingloradh here. Perhaps traveled with a meal and saw the potential in these woods. Geralt caught his reflection in the mirrors as he went by, and chuckled a bit to himself, it looks so odd, the lines not druid, not like the formal make up he had seen Yen wear somewhere in between. He thought the black around his eyes didn’t look too bad but the rest was absurd. It would do the job though, and he defeated a Vingloradh, he would definitely have bragging rights this winter at Kaer Morhen.

He settled into a small clearing near those mirrors, where he could smell the pride of men, luxury goods, and a rotten undertone. Geralt waited and carefully ran a thumb over his bottom lip, smeared the gold paint, releasing the scent of it. He thought of his pride in his skills, that he was better with his sword than Lambert, that he could last longer than Eskel. He dug deep and yes he was proud that Jaskier wrote so many songs about him.

Geralt smiled a bit, and hummed a few bars of one of the songs.

He could hear the creature coming closer closer, intrigued, lured in. He didn’t draw his sword just knelt there hummed, eyes closed, pressed his thumb to his lip and then held it out, spit, the gold paint both on the skin. The Vingloradh’s tongue swiped against his skin and he opened his eyes. The creature wasn’t beautiful but compelling. “It is a privilege to meet you,” he said and lunged at the monster, pulling his sword at the same time. The monster screamed and tried to lick at his face, recognizing the marks, but it missed the black, and just smeared the green on his jaw. It was strong, well fed, but old enough to be tired.

It was a hard fight, because no creature wanted to die, but also it seemed oddly relieved when Geralt’s sword pierced through its throat. He let the creature down carefully. It had gotten a few good hits in, he had bruised ribs and there were some new dints in his armor. He could only imagine with the sweat and licking what his face must look like right now. He beheaded the creature, and burned the rest of the corpse. 

The walk back into town was quiet, and Jaskier must have gotten involved in his music or with that barmaid, because he had never followed and it certainly wasn’t because he listened to Geralt. The village healer had been the one to hire him, and paid fair without any last minute nonsense. The moon was and the sky clear, it was a beautiful night, after a hunt that went better than expected. If he had been the sort to whistle, he would have done so. 

In the inn, Jaskier wasn’t playing which was a bit of surprise but he could have finished earlier. Geralt grabbed a bottle of wine, and a pitcher of fresh water, headed up to the room. He couldn’t scent any but Jaskier in there, so he gave the barest knock before stepping in.

“Jaskier?” Geralt was concerned. He was just sitting there on the bed, smelling like confusion and arousal still. Did the woman turn him down? Geralt put down the bottle and the pitcher; he stripped off his weapons, and carefully crouched in front of Jaskier. “What the fuck is wrong?”

“Oh, gods,” Jaskier groaned, looking at him.

“What? I’m fine a few bruises and scrapes, nothing that even needs stitching,” Geralt protested. 

“Face,” Jaskier almost whimpered, and Geralt was growing truly concerned.

“My face is fine, hardly a knick,” Geralt reached out, pressed the back of his against Jaskier’s forehead, then cupped his cheek. “My friend, what is going on?”

“Friend?” Jaskier’s hand came up and dragged along his bottom lip. “Your make up is a mess.”

Geralt made a face at him. “Not make up, protective sigils. Yen wears make up, this is different. Let me just wash it off and then we’ll figure out what the fuck is wrong with you.” He tried to move away from Jaskier, but Jaskier was gripping his armor, and Geralt couldn’t break the grip. “Jaskier?” He tried to move and Jaskier wouldn’t let go. And that arousal smell was climbing. He looked over but, yes the door was closed no barmaid in sight. “Let me wash the stupid off and -”

“No,” Jaskier growled and then he surged up and his mouth was on Geralt’s.

It took longer than Geralt would ever admit to anybody in his very long life to realize that it was a kiss and not a possessed Jaskier trying to bite his face off. To be fair to himself, Jaskier was kissing with a lot of teeth. And oh fuck, Jaskier was kissing him. Jaskier was kissing him hard enough they had fallen on the floor. And he wasn’t stopping. Geralt put his hands on Jaskier’s back as his thoughts rapidly swirled.

All that arousal smell had been about Geralt.

Maybe it always had been.

If it had been, he could have been having Jaskier on top of him like this for years.

They were fucking idiots. 

Geralt’s grip tightened on Jaskier. “Bed,” he managed to say when Jaskier briefly pulled away. “Bed right there.”

Jaskier stood up and Geralt did as well and started to move towards the bed and found himself pulled, pressed against the wall instead, and those biting, perfect, heady kisses were pressed to his neck. “Bed?” Geralt gasped out. Beds were great. “Naked?” Naked was even better. Jaskier’s hands were on his armor, undoing buckles and ties with ease even as he never stopped sucking bruises onto Geralt’s neck. Jaskier shouldn’t actually be strong enough to bruise the witcher, but he was pretty sure he would have marks on his skin.

“More,” Geralt whispered. He wanted a thousand marks from Jaskier, he quickly realized. Fuck, wanted everyone to see them. Have Jaskier doing that loose hipped sexy walk that he did when he was pleased with himself.

Fuck, how long had he thought Jaskier was sexy and not realized it?

“Fuck,” Geralt groaned when Jaskier’s hands finally sank into his trousers, opened the flap and then were around his cock. One hand stroking the length, the other cupping his balls. And his mouth still delivering those marks. “More,” Geralt demanded because Jaskier’s were the best hands to ever touch him.

“I’m giving you more,” Jaskier replied against his skin. “You had to wear make up?”

“Sigils,” Geralt gasped as Jaskier’s finger pressed just behind his balls. “Bed.”

“I like you like this,” Jaskier said and his gripped tightened, grew faster, and Geralt ached. Hungered. They stayed pressed against the wall, Jaskier kissing him, hands making him see stars, until Geralt’s mind emptied, his body went rigid, and he spilled over Jaskier’s fingers. There was finally a gentle kiss against his gold stained lips.

Jaskier tilted his head away and Geralt just started into his eyes. They stood there, still dressed, just Geralt’s cock out, Jaskier’s hands sticky. It was absurd and absolutely perfect for them finally doing something about the tension that Geralt now realized had been growing for years. He couldn’t stop the yawn though that came out. Between the hunt and the best hand job he had ever had, he wanted a twenty minute cat nap. He breathed in and Jaskier still smelled like arousal. Geralt had neglected him. “Jaskier,” he began. “I need to -” he was going to say that he needed to suck Jaskier’s cock, but he yawned again. “Bed,” he said. They could nap and then he could make Jaskier feel good. Jaskier’s hands carefully put his cock in his small clothes, and then undressed him. Geralt really wanted lying down.

But his face was a mess. “Sigils,” he said.

“Later,” Jaskier said and pushed him to the bed. “Geralt?”

“Hmm?” Geralt snuggled into the bed and held up an arm for Jaskier to come in for a cuddle but the man didn’t. “Bed,” he growled but Jaskier was still standing. Maybe he was going to tidy the armor and then cuddle.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispered and his finger reached out and traced over the last bit of gold on Geralt’s lip. He had a bunch on his mouth too. Geralt thought it looked incredible on Jaskier.

Geralt thought he murmured something in response to that apology but he wasn’t sure what. He woke up an hour later, and felt amazing. And he wanted to suck Jaskier’s cock. He sat up, and frowned because he couldn’t smell Jaskier. He lit a candle, and saw that Jaskier, and all his things were gone.

“What the fuck?” Geralt shouted and the sound echoed in the empty room. He stood and dressed, swiftly gathered his things.

Jaskier had just changed everything. And Geralt wanted more. He wasn’t one of Jaskier’s conquests where the man left via window after the fuck. Jaskier had kept him, now the bard was stuck with him. Geralt opened his witcher senses and was relieved that the trail wasn’t cold. He could smell that sweat, and arousal and that ineffable Jaskier scent.

Geralt strode out of the inn, smudged paint still on his face, uncaring about how he looked.

He had a bard to hunt down.

**Author's Note:**

> to be continued.....


End file.
